Page 31 of Last Wish Wedding

Then a shriek from upstairs. His heart jumped to his throat as he took the stairs two at a time, following the sound to the bathroom. He burst through the door to find Kelsey balanced precariously on a stepladder, paintbrush in hand, ineffectively trying to squish a large black spider.

She screamed again—this time in surprise—as she spun toward him. The paint can teetered, then tipped, sending a cascade of seafoam green down the front of her old t-shirt and onto the drop cloth below.

“Mac!” She grabbed the ladder to steady herself, eyes wide. “What the hell?”

Paint dripped down Kelsey’s shirt as she stared at Mac standing in her bathroom doorway, his chest rising and falling quickly from his sprint up the stairs. His hair was rumpled, and he looked somehow even more appealing than usual in this frantic state.

“Mac! What are you doing here?” she asked, climbing down from the ladder. Her foot slipped slightly on the wet drop cloth, and Mac’s hand shot out to steady her elbow. The touch sent warmth spreading up her arm.

“Are you okay? I heard screaming,” he said, still not letting go of her arm.

“Oh God.” She felt her face flush. “You must have thought I was being murdered up here.”

“Something like that.”

“It was a spider.” She grabbed an old towel and started mopping up the spilled paint. “A really big spider. We had a disagreement about bathroom occupancy.”

Mac’s laugh was rich and deep. “So you’re telling me I rushed up here to save you from an arachnid?”

“My hero,” she said dryly, but couldn’t help smiling. “Though next time, maybe knock louder?”

“I did knock. And yelled, but Queen was drowning me out.”

She grimaced. “I guess I got carried away with my painting playlist.”

Mac looked around at the half-finished walls. “Seafoam green?”

“It’s soothing,” she defended, watching as he rolled up his sleeves to expose muscular forearms. “What are you doing?”

“Helping. I can reach the high spots so you don’t have to be on that rickety ladder. And I think painting responsibilities are the landlord’s. Unless you’d rather do it alone?”

“No, I…” She swallowed hard. “Help would be nice.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the music now at a more reasonable volume. Mac painted with surprising efficiency, his brush strokes even and careful. They were making quick work of the small space.

“You’re good at this,” she observed. “David couldn’t tell a Phillips-head from a flathead.”

Mac dipped his brush in the paint. “My parents and grandfather saw to it I knew how to do things. I enjoy it really. Even helped design and build my house. Makes it more mine.”

She watched him stretch to reach a high corner, his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders and baring part of his mid-drift. She tried not to stare. “I’m the same way. I like to do things for myself, relish in the satisfaction of a job well done. And it also helps keep my mind occupied and off of my troubles.”

Mac’s brush stilled, and Kelsey realized she’d made him uneasy. Maybe he was truly sorry for yesterday. The silence stretched between them.

“Mac?” she finally asked. “Why did you really stop by today? Did you come to apologize some more?”

He turned to face her, paint smudged on his cheek. He seemed unsure of himself. “I…”

“Maybe you wanted to ask me if I wanted to try that boat trip again. A do-over?”

His eyes met hers. “I would like to make up for yesterday properly. If you’re willing.”

She studied him. He’d clearly not had any idea why he’d stopped by, and she was pushing him into spending time with her.

“You’ve got paint on your face,” she said finally, stepping closer. Without thinking, she reached up to wipe it away with her thumb. Mac caught her wrist gently, his thumb brushing over her pulse point.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” she whispered, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing. “It’s a date.”